A/N: When I wrote "The Cold Touch of Rain", I got in the habit of replying to my reviewers at the beginning of every new chapter. I think that was a fine tradition, so here we go:

-Ian: Why thank you. And I think you may be onto something…fanfiction is indeed back. P.S. Thanks for being my encyclopedia.

-Sarahbarr17: I think you're onto something as well; March 3019…not looking so hot. I'm glad you like the bit about the Rangers of Ithilien. They are going to play an important role in this story.

-Lily: Aww. Thanks. ) It's good to be back. And you're right about that murky darkness…it's on its way.

-Rana Ningue: Reviewing mood swings…interesting! Well, lucky for you, I'm writing this chapter at 7PM, so you'll have something to read when the mood strikes you tonight. And as for my 385 reviews, believe me, I was more shocked than you probably are! I had no idea it would be such a big hit. It would be nice if I broke my record with this fic, but I'm not going to hold my breath. ;)

So, Tolkien's characters…let me check…nope, they're still not mine. (My disclaimer dances the mamba, how bout yours?)

Chapter Three: The Man in Red

Thurandír sat on the edge of his bed, reaching down to remove his heavy boots. He untied the mud-coated strings slowly, weaving them in and out of brass-covered hooks. When he glanced up, he noticed his wife standing in the doorway, regarding him silently.

"Sneaking up on your husband? Now that's not very nice," Thurandír joked. He watched Gailrin's face for any signs of amusement, but found none. Her features were devoid of all expression, and her usual level of coldness was at a new icy temperature. Thurandír sometimes wondered how he could find such a distant woman so beautiful. Because of her half-Elven roots, Gailrin was exceptionally tall and fair – two features which added to her generally emotionless disposition.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, the smile dropping from his lips.

"You know it is," Gailrin said softly, stepping into the room. Her feet made no sound on the floorboards, and she gently lowered herself into the wooden rocking chair in the corner. Her silver skirts pooled around her ankles, and she pulled her dark curls over her shoulder gracefully. "It is time for you and I to talk about leaving these parts."

"Oh, for pity's sake," Thurandír muttered, pushing a hand through his wavy hair. "Not this again."

"Avoid the matter as much as you desire," she said evenly. "It will not change the reality of our situation."

"The reality?" Thurandír echoed. "And I suppose you have developed the gift of foresight!"

"It has naught to do with foresight or special gifts, Thurandír," Gailrin replied, arching a dark eyebrow. "I can see what is happening to our town, because it is happening right now. It has been happening for months. Times are changing. The air is growing colder. I do not feel safe here anymore. Don't you want your wife to be safe? And your children?"

Thurandír was quiet. Gailrin pressed on, sensing his weakness.

"You have even said yourself that you are having trouble with trades as of late. I am just trying to do the best for our family. My eyes are simply open, my love. When will you realize that yours are not?"

"Have you been sharing words with our son?" Thurandír finally asked, standing. "I feel as though I just had this exact conversation with Faeldor."

"Does it trouble you that we are all in agreement?"

"What troubles me is that you have no faith."

They stared at one another for a long moment, eyes locked in a war of opinions. Thurandír held his head high, clinging to his pride like a man hanging from a cliff. Gailrin did not remove the stern haze from her dark eyes. Finally, Thurandír broke the stare.

"We are not leaving. That is the final decision."

With that, he stormed from the room, shutting the door behind him loudly for emphasis. Gailrin remained seated, gazing after him as though she could still see his retreating back, his heavy strides.

"I'm afraid it is not your decision alone," she said to the empty room.

Faeldor listened to his father's angry footsteps as he marched down the hall. From his position in his bedroom, he could not help but overhear the conversation between his parents. The solemn tone of his mother's voice was a strong confirmation for his fears. Gondor was falling.

He turned to his window, gazing out at the large hill, the shore, the river. The scenery was the same as it had always been, but something about the picture appeared different to Faeldor. The waters that once appeared friendly now seemed ominous. When he was a child, the breeze sung songs to him. Now it whispered threats.

Faeldor clenched his hand in a fist. He knew his mother was right. They needed to leave, and leave quickly. But he could not shake the growing fury in his heart. It was a certain kind of anger – one that empowered him, and frightened him. It was the kind of anger that a man could only feel when confronted with the realization that he must leave the one place he'd ever called home.

Pelilas took a small bite of the sandwich that Coruwen made. The bread was a touch too hard, and the meat tasted old. He chewed thoughtfully, reluctantly meeting her gaze.

"Delicious," he lied, forcing a smile.

"I hoped you would think so," Coruwen replied, smiling back at him.

The two were seated on a large rock near the bay. Coruwen had brought a basket full of sandwiches, crackers, and tea. Their picnics were a ritual established long ago, when they were children. Faeldor used to join them from time to time. Whenever he came, he would bring bowls of soup made with fish that he'd caught earlier. Faeldor's soup was always much tastier than Coruwen's sandwiches.

But somewhere during that slow purgatorial era between childhood and adulthood, Coruwen and Pelilas grew to become more than just friends. It was as though it happened overnight. One moment, they were playing together on the shore, giving one another chase, and the next, they were exchanging stolen kisses underneath the stars. Faeldor, although still close to Pelilas, stopped coming to the picnics. And so, a tradition built for three transformed into a custom for two.

"Who were those men?" Coruwen asked. "The ones on the boat, before I came down to the shore?"

"Rangers," Pelilas answered, taking a long sip of tea. "They were heading up the Anduin."

"A death sentence," she said, biting into a sandwich.

"What did you just say?" he snapped. Coruwen raised wide green eyes to him, startled at his tone. Pelilas quickly softened his voice. "Why did you say that?"

"It's something that my brother says," she answered, biting her lip. She realized that she was digging a bigger hole for herself with every added breath. "Faeldor is always ranting and raving lately about how traveling the Anduin is suicide." Coruwen winced visibly; she knew the gravity of her words.

"Thank you," Pelilas said bitterly, dropping the sandwich to the ground. "I am not hungry anymore."

"Pelilas, please," Coruwen said, touching his arm gently. "I did not mean--"

"Then try saying what you mean," he replied harshly, his blue eyes flashing with anger.

There was a small silence, and Coruwen glanced down at her hands. Pelilas sighed loudly.

"Forgive me," he said, "I should not grow cross with you. And you should not have to tread daintily around such matters. I am fully aware of the dangers my father faces every time he sails up the River. I am fully aware that he is most likely gone forever."

"No," Coruwen said, shaking her head emphatically. "You cannot think like that, Pelilas! You have to believe that he will come back."

"What is the use?" Pelilas asked. "To raise up my hopes so high that they have an even further distance to fall when the truth sets in?"

Coruwen let out a small laugh, rolling her eyes. "You and my brother should get together and exchange your shadowed thoughts. You would have a grand time!"

"Faeldor is a smart boy," he said with a shrug.

"It cannot be as bad as you both say it is," Coruwen mused aloud, looking skyward.

"What makes you think so?"

Coruwen turned her gaze to him, raising an eyebrow mischievously. She lifted a hand to his face, running her fingertips over his freckle-laced cheekbones.

"I have no reason to fear whatever evil lies up the Anduin," she said softly. "Not when I have you."

Pelilas smiled in response. He moved closer, reaching up to touch her thick dark hair, tangling his fingers in the mass of curls and braids. He leaned in to kiss her, but stopped halfway when a flash of red caught his eye. Pelilas's gaze darted to the left, over Coruwen's shoulder.

There was a man, he realized, crouched down in the bushes. As he locked eyes with him, Pelilas felt an icy fear spread out through his lungs. He looked like no other man Pelilas had ever seen before. He seemed to be wearing many layers of red clothing, and his gold jewelry sparkled in the sunlight. His face was mostly hidden by a dark hood, but Pelilas could catch a glimpse of his dark skin spliced with bright paint. His eyes, he noticed, were as hard as stones.

In a flash, the man was gone. He took off, crashing through the trees, and Pelilas was jolted back to life.

"Are you all right?" Coruwen asked, her eyes searching his.

"Yes, yes," he said hurriedly, shaking his head as if to remove the image of this man. "Fine. Perfect." Pelilas smiled to emphasize his point. "My mind just…went somewhere else."

"Well keep it here," Coruwen laughed.

"My mind, you mean?"

"Well, at least your lips," she replied with a grin.

Pelilas laughed heartily before settling his mouth firmly over hers. Coruwen returned the kiss energetically, pressing a warm hand to the back of his neck. But try as he might, Pelilas just could not let himself get lost in the moment. Behind his closed eyelids, he was haunted with images of this mysterious man in the bushes. As he continued to replay these pictures over and over, his fear gave way to curiosity. Perhaps even intrigue. And this scared Pelilas further.

A/N: Evil, evil, evil. Oh, it's coming.